


You Machine

by AllieCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John is sad and lonely, Post Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieCat/pseuds/AllieCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead and John can't let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Machine

John dragged himself out of bed, and looked over at his clock. Three am. Sherlock was dead. He had barely even been asleep for two hours before being woken by the nightmares that plagued his sleep, and his waking existence. The Ambien was heavy still in his blood, and Sherlock’s face was still heavy in his mind, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t shake it. He dragged himself from his bed, foot thudding loudly as he limped down the stairs, that creaked and filled the silent flat with noise.  He made his way into the kitchen, and pulled two mugs from the cupboard, which promptly served to remind him that his best and only friend was as dead as a doornail, and had been that way for the better part of two and a half years. He filled the kettle, and put one mug back, because Sherlock was dead and would not be needing tea. 

The Union Jack teapot lay in pieces on the kitchen floor. He’d smashed it earlier, along with the dainty little cup that James fucking Moriarty had taken tea from. He hadn’t been able to clean it up though, he’d hardly been able to stand up. Sighing heavily, John bent down and picked the pieces of blue, red and white ceramic up, cutting his fingers on the sharpened edge, though he barely noticed. After putting them in the bin, he poured himself a mug, a single mug, of chamomile tea. It tasted like grass, but it helped, in a way, so he sat himself down in his chair. He supposed that all the chairs were his now, because Sherlock’d left him everything.

 

_Doesn’t she mean anything to you?_

_She’s dying, you machine!_

_Sod this! You stay here if you want. On your own._

_  
_He’d been so cruel. So horribly, awfully cruel. He wondered if it was his fault, that if he hadn’t said those things, hadn’t acted like an utter bastard, that Sherlock might still be around. His rational mind, or what was left of it, told him that he wasn’t to blame, that no one could have seen it coming. But there wasn’t much of his rational mind left.

Sherlock was his best friend. He was rude, and hyperactive, and he didn’t understand sentiment, but he was the best friend John could’ve asked for.  

 

_No one could be that clever._

Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a cape, and he wasn’t a comic book super hero, but he was heroic, and he was the most human man that John knew, and might never know again. He closed his eyes, and sipped at the tea, though he didn’t want to drink it. Sherlock was his best friend, and he was dead, and he would not be getting one more miracle.


End file.
